


Fear Slipstreams

by idiotbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Apologizes, Fix-It of Sorts, Kissing, M/M, Season/Series 09, The Gadreel issue, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2373746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes a little trip down memory lane to escape his troubles for a while. "Then": He accidentally loses his temper with his and Sam's younger selves. "Now": He makes an effort to communicate his regret to Sam, for past and present misdeeds alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear Slipstreams

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Bloodflood" by alt-J.

"So...where in the future do you come from?" Dean glanced at Sam. (Sam, who was bright-eyed and shaggy-headed, bangs obscuring his forehead and face unlined and frame still gangly, features still boyish.) 

"Does it matter?" Dean asked. Sam's chin was in his hand, stare intent on Dean like he was spinning the most fascinating story he'd ever heard. "Kinda, yeah. For starters, if this is how you look in, say, three years from now, things must've _really_ gone to shit." Dean laughed a little self-consciously, a flat, bitter sound. _You have no idea, kid_. "I don't look that old, do I?" He said instead, not actually expecting an answer, but Sam said, "You kind of...look like Dad," and Dean couldn't breathe for a second, steel claws testing the strength of his lungs. "Only a little," Sam hurriedly added, backpedaling when something in Dean's expression must have given him away, "Like, only from a certain angle. If you squint."

"Dude, it's okay. You didn't hurt my feelings," Dean finally bit out, but that was a lie. And then, belatedly, "I'm thirty five." Sam's eyes widened, and fuck he looked young when he did that, even when he did it in Dean's timeline; but _here_ , with his clear skin and his soft edges and his hair spilling over his face... "Wow," Sam breathed, sitting back slightly to give Dean another assessing glance, "Eight years. What happens in that time? Or can't you tell me?" Dean weighed the thought in his mind, but it was mostly for appearance's sake, because he knew he wasn't nearly strong enough to recount even a quarter of what Sam had to look forward to.

Plus, his past experience with time travel had taught him that, one: screwing around in different timelines was confusing as hell and rarely accomplished what you wanted it to, and two: some events were intended to play out no matter the circumstances. Of course, unless divine intervention or some other super-charged force was involved somehow, the Sam in Dean's timeline would remember this, no matter how distantly--and who knew what changes that might lead to down the road, depending on what Dean said and did here...yeah, okay, his previous time travel excursions hadn't taught him jack shit. There was too much to consider and, depending on the mission, little way of knowing where to tread, like he was stuck in a minefield without a metal detector.

_The mission_. Glimpsing a desolate future he had to become motivated to prevent, or ensuring that he and Sam were guaranteed to be born, or trying futilely to save his mother from her fiery end. It wasn't anything like that, this time. This time around, Dean was cashing in a favor, taking an undeserved break from the mess he'd made of his own timeline, from the empty bunker and the emptier bottles and the smoke from Kevin's burning corpse still caught in his throat a week after the fact. He'd flipped to the appropriate page in one of the Men of Letters' tomes and slowly worked it out, a quick jaunt into the past that would constitute little less than an hour in real-time. Those well-read motherfuckers had spells and gimmicks for everything. 

"I'd really rather not talk about it," Dean answered Sam after a minute, eyes still flicking over to rest on him every so often, cataloging the missing scars and scrapes that would collect on him over time, the unbroken skin of his left hand, his posture easy instead of hunched and uncomfortable. Sam tried a different angle. "What am I like? Do I, um," he chewed on his lip before continuing, and Dean was way too distracted by the gesture, "I guess normalcy is too much to hope for, huh?" Dean felt like his heart was going to give out on him, thinking of Sam's face illuminated by streetlights, faint drizzle misting him as he said, _I was ready to die, Dean_. Thought of himself walking away, taking the car and leaving Sam standing there, small and pale and weakened from wrestling with an angel inside his own body while a demon watched from the sidelines. When Dean spoke, he sounded strained even to his own ears. "You're, uh. You get _big_. You're a fuckin' mammoth." Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, so I haven't hit my stride yet? Damn."

He slumped forward then, momentarily echoing his future self's usual posture in a way that made Dean's breath catch. The look on his face was wistful, somehow. "And still such a sap. That hasn't changed," Dean said casually, but he was thinking about the way Sam looked at him nowadays, worn out and recalcitrant at the same time, subtle hint of anger lingering beneath the surface when they tried to talk and it ended with one or both of them clamming up and putting a good yard or two of space between them. "The visions, do I still...?" The fucking visions. It was a lifetime ago that they'd been eating away at Dean, making his heart beat out of his chest every time Sam doubled over in pain, stuttered out the details he was inwardly focused on with his hands clenched in Dean's shirt, and now...now Dean would kill to have them be the worst of his problems.

"Shit," Dean whispered, brushing his fingers over his eyes, dry but prickling like they hadn't in a long time, his chest tight and his shoulders drawn. "Hey," Sam said, voice warm with concern, "What's wrong?" He touched a gentle hand to Dean's arm, his eyebrows furrowed under his bangs.This kid was going to be put through so much mind-bending shit. Bruised and battered within an inch of his life, over and over again ad infinitum; addicted to demon blood and made to suffer accordingly; flayed to pieces and god knew what else by the devil and his vengeful brother; tripping over his own feet because he couldn't distinguish reality from illusion; hacking his lungs up as his body shied away from and his soul clung desperately to the Trials; sides of his head tacky with dried blood as he fought off the danger that Dean had let into his body, nothing external to indicate it aside from the movement of his eyeballs under closed lids. And that was just the CliffNotes version.

Sam's hand rested more firmly on the crook of Dean's elbow now, thumb automatically stroking at his shirtsleeve. "It's rough in your time, huh. Can't say I didn't expect as much," Sam mused, and his eyes were sad, lonely glint to them that awakened Dean's protective instincts with a feverish burst, had him fiercely wishing he could cut down anyone and anything that would ever harm a hair on Sam's head, and it was a really fucking irrational urge because Dean himself belonged in that category, had made a home for himself there ages ago. "I'm sorry," Dean said, the two words that he couldn't say to Sam when it mattered, the phrase going into hiding whenever he and Sam awkwardly ran into each other in the bunker, burying itself out of sight because _You saved his life. Fucked everything to hell, but he was dying, and you_ saved _him_. So utterly and irredeemably weak of him, to be grasping onto paper-thin justifications for his ever-growing assortment of grievous mistakes, but that was Dean. And here was Sam, a much younger, friendlier version of him, touching Dean and gazing at him like he had his unconditional trust, his love and his respect because he was his big brother and he'd never hurt him, not in a million years.

"You're crying," Sam said, something like wonderment in his tone. "Is it...is it that bad?" A thread of fear underlining his sentence. Dean leaned in too close, shared his breath, felt him stiffen warily. His hand reached out for Sam's shoulder, slid up until it landed in his hair, fingers curling there. "Yes," Dean answered truthfully, "It is." Then he sealed his mouth over Sam's, let his eyelids flutter shut and pried Sam's soft lips open with his tongue, Dean's hand tightening in his hair as he rocked them closer together. He could feel his tears slipping between their faces, and even when Sam snapped out of his daze and started kissing back, a quiet noise punched out of him as their tongues twined and Dean's other hand settled heavy and possessive over his waist, Dean felt his eyes leaking.

Dean hadn't done this with _his_ Sam in years, was used to fucking him against a wall or over the nearest table when they were both tense and upset but still hungry for each other, but he couldn't remember the last time they'd kissed, the last time they'd been together without it being short-lived and violent. He was tempted, now, to get rough, ruffle this Sam's feathers and show him exactly how he liked it where Dean came from, but he lost himself instead to the taste of Sam's mouth, the slow glide of their roaming hands, their bodies grinding against each other without it being too heated, too hasty. Just as Dean was sliding two fingers past the waistband of Sam's jeans, he was gripped by his shoulders from behind and yanked bodily away, hard enough to bruise. "What the fuck, pal--" Dean started, incensed, just as his aggressor said, "I could say the same to you, motherfucker." Dean blinked.

Shit. He was staring at the younger version of himself, who practically leaped out of his skin when he saw Dean's face, his hand going for his gun. "No, Dean, don't," Sam said, jerking forward and getting between them, but the other Dean shoved at him, spat, "Get outta the way, Sam, I'm gonna blow this perverted freak's brains out. Fuckin' assaulting my brother while wearing _my_ face--"

"Listen, this's gonna sound crazy, but he's _you_ , okay? He's not a shifter, I tested him." 

"So he could be something else. Now _move_ so I can break his ugly-ass mug." After several minutes more of threats from younger Dean and reassurances by Sam, following which Dean cut to the chase and served his other self the same spiel he'd given Sam, complete with the brief round of twenty questions to secure his authenticity, younger Dean looked reluctantly convinced, putting his gun away and crossing his arms sullenly. "So if you're me, why in the hell were you getting all touchy-feely with Sam, huh? Do I turn into a sleazy old creep, ready to whip it out for anything that breathes?" Sam colored, mouth working wordlessly. He looked fucking adorable like that, cheeks flushed and mouth kiss-swollen, hair sticking up slightly on one side where Dean had pulled on it. It made Dean's chest clench with affection, even as his younger self was getting his gun out again. "Jesus, Dean," Sam said, "Stop it. He wasn't doing anything I didn't want." Younger Dean froze, eyebrows flying up. "Oh, this is what gets you going? Dirty geezers who look like the 'before' picture of a drug recovery ad?" _Fuck, I was dense. No wonder Sam was so impatient by the time I caught on_. Sam blushed deeper, lips taut like he had something to say but was keeping himself from speaking it. Younger Dean gave Dean a once-over, disdain written all over his face. " 'Least now I know why it never works out with the girls I set you up with. You have shit taste, Sammy."

"Dude," Dean said, corner of his mouth turning up despite himself, "You realize you're insulting yourself, right? This ugly-ass mug is gonna be yours eventually."

"Yeah, I don't think so. I ain't gonna let myself go like you did." That sobered Dean up, made the gloom come rushing back over Dean's thoughts, his head lowering. Sam kicked younger Dean in the ankle, hissing, "Don't be so insensitive."

"Ow! Geez, I don't care about his sob story--Son of a bitch was like, licking your face--Fuck, get your giant foot away from there!" Dean watched as they slapped and prodded at each other, younger Dean getting Sam in a headlock and Sam trying to bite his fingers, both of them breathing hard and laughing in short bursts until Sam cried uncle when younger Dean's tongue was hovering a threatening few inches away from his ear. They disentangled themselves from each other and righted their clothes, and the whole scene was so achingly nostalgic that Dean could've started tearing up all over again. "What're you getting all maudlin for," Younger Dean asked, replacing his carefree grin with a mistrustful glower. "Nothing, it's just. We don't horse around like that anymore."

"No, you spend your days shoving your tongue down Sam's throat, instead. Or was that a one-time thing?" Sam and Dean groaned simultaneously. "Anyone ever tell you how annoying you are? 'Cause let me tell you, if you weren't me, I'd have decked you at least twice by now," Dean said. 

"Takes one to know one." 

"I guess it does." Sam rolled his eyes at them, then said, "So, how much time do you have left?" Younger Dean scoffed. "Not long, by the looks of him. Looks like a walking corpse."

"I _meant_ , how long before you have to return to your timeline?" Dean checked his watch, then realized he hadn't been keeping track in the first place. "Uh...I'm gonna take a guess and say half an hour." To Dean's surprise, Sam looked almost disappointed. "There's so much I wanna ask you," he said, "But I get the feeling you aren't up for answering my questions." Dean shook his head slightly, and his younger self chimed in, "Why'd you make the trip over here if you aren't gonna make yourself useful?" Dean sighed, looking at his hands. "No big reason. Guess I wanted to reminisce." 

"Is _that_ what you call molesting my little brother? You wanna reminisce, make a scrapbook." Sam winced at the same instant that Dean did. "You're not gonna let that go, are you."

"No, I'm really not. You can't just do what you want to Sam because you're a stranger to him here and he'd allow it. Capisce? Besides, he's mine, you sicko. Try that shit on your own Sam, see how he likes it." Younger Dean blushed a second later as he realized what he'd said, mouth twisting into a grimace. Sam had a similar expression on.

"A-anyway...you'll be gone soon, and we can all pretend it never happened." Dean's eyes flickered between the two of them, both red in the face and fidgety but still standing close enough together that their shoulders brushed. He kind of felt like telling them, _Fast-forward through all the denial and repressed sexual tension already; you're gonna have a good one and a half years together, you're gonna fuck every night and make out every morning and after hunts and it's gonna be easy and satisfying and the happiest you'll ever be with each other_. The golden early years, before wedge after wedge was driven between them and sex became a habit rather than an indulgence and Dean continually fucked everything up with his big mouth and his rash decisions.

What was he even doing here? Hiding out, running from Sam. Running from responsibility, as per usual. He inwardly accused Sam of doing the same thing, but when it came down to it, he was more prone to resisting change, stagnating in his own vices in lieu of braving confrontations that might lead somewhere, of admitting the truth to himself. He felt like tearing his hair out, awash in self-pity and regret and the unpleasantly real possibility that there was no coming back from this, that Sam couldn't forgive him this time. This wasn't something that he could relegate to a dusty back shelf after they came to blows, split lips and bruised faces and harsh breaths signaling that hey, they'd addressed it, it had been sufficiently dealt with and they could ignore it now and keep on keeping on. No, this was the culmination of years of strain, of desperation and anger and being so wrapped up in Sam that it brought out the very worst in him, time and time again.

His fists flying at Sam, drawing his blood over a minor transgression. Telling Sam he was a freak (light-hearted but secretly anxious), a monster (quietly assured), not someone Dean could believe in (worn down and ready to give everything up). Doing what he could to keep Sam in line, keep him trudging forward by Dean's side where he belonged, a permanent dysfunctional fixture that had to be lied to, verbally reprimanded, punished if he toed the faded chalk circle around him that constituted acceptable Sam-appropriate behavior.

Because otherwise, otherwise who knew what would happen; he'd guzzle demon blood, unleash Lucifer on the world, lose his conscience and run around trigger-happy and machiavellian, leave Dean in the lurch when he was trapped in a godforsaken sinkhole of supernatural fallout; settling down to play house while Dean was risking his neck by the minute. Dean's fingers were digging into his temples, and Sam's voice--softer, more lilting--was asking him if he was okay. A younger version of his own voice said, "Man, this guy's a wreck."

They didn't know, it wasn't sinking in for them, that they were definitively looking at their future, that it wouldn't be too far from now that their relationship would begin its steady decline into something frayed and ready to snap at a moment's notice. Dean surged forward and gripped his younger self by the collar of his jacket, seething with the need to do something, to _warn_ them.

"What the hell're you doing? Let go before I shoot your balls off." Dean felt the hard muzzle of a gun being pressed directly above his groin to punctuate the threat. "Dean," Sam yelped, and Dean didn't know which of them he was talking to, but Sam just hovered, hands up, buzzing with nervous energy. "Go ahead," Dean spat, not backing off. "Aim that thing at my face while you're at it. There's nothing left for me to live for in my time, anyway." 

"Now you're just talking crazy," younger Dean said, as if everything he'd said up to that point had been perfectly logical. 

"You don't get it. You two, you're gonna wish you were dead. You're gonna see death as a blessing, and you'll never get to have it for real." His hands were shaking where they were clenched in younger Dean's leather jacket. Dad's jacket. It didn't fit his younger self properly, had never really been a perfect fit, but maybe if Dean dug it out of storage now, it would cling to him like a second skin.

"In fact, Sam here," Dean continued, voice beginning to waver, "Sam specifically asked not to be brought back. Because he knew what I'd do to revive him, he _knew_ , and I fucking did it anyway. Why the fuck--why should Sam get to escape and leave me stranded there, huh? How the _fuck_ does that make sense?" He shook younger Dean roughly, like everything was his fault. Oh wait, yeah, it technically was.

"Dean, calm down," Sam said, voice hushed and careful like he was soothing a wild dog. Dean turned on him, shoving his younger self aside. "Don't talk to me like that. You're not allowed--because fuck him if he thinks he can leave me behind, after everything he's done. He doesn't _deserve_ that, you hear me?" Dean jabbed a finger into Sam's chest.

"Fuck him. Fuck you, Sam. You wanna know what happens to you? You become dangerous, that's what. All these different variations of you over the years and all they do is murder and lie and get me drunk off my ass every night. And sometimes I think, maybe they're better than the real thing. You're more tolerable to me," Dean said, enunciating slowly and watching Sam's eyes grow wide and wet as he stood there silently, "When you're just an impersonation, than when you're actually you. You're sitting alone in that other timeline right now, angry at me for doing what I had to to save your life. I've given you _everything_ , you understand me? Everything, and you fuckin' tell me we're not brothers anymore." 

" _Enough_ ," younger Dean shouted, and forcefully pushed Dean away from Sam, standing in front of him with his arms half-spread like he was shielding him. Sam was biting his bottom lip, and there was a pinprick of blood blossoming there, his eyebrows knitted together and his hands curled into fists. He looked like he was a second away from breaking down and crying. Younger Dean turned to look him over, hand going up to cup the side of his face and eyes softening before he looked back to Dean, and his expression went cold. "Get the fuck out." Dean took a step forward, guilt and nausea roiling in his stomach. "Sammy...I'm sorr--"

"Don't," younger Dean said, voice low. "Don't look at him, don't touch him. Just get out. Fuck off to your own timeline." Dean swallowed down the bile that rose to his throat, nodded and walked away from them with a single lingering glance backwards at Sam, whose skin was pale and who was leaning into his Dean.

"You know something?" Dean's younger self said to his back, "I feel sorry for your Sam. You don't deserve him." Dean froze. Without turning around, he started, "You don't understand what it's like--" 

"Oh, I understand just fine. I understand that you're a spineless piece of shit, that you're more selfish than I am. And I wish there was some way to know for sure that I'll never turn into you." Dean opened his mouth to say something, to defend himself, to try to apologize again, because the despairing look on Sam's face was killing him, but when he blinked, he was standing in his room in the bunker.

A sob rose in his throat, and he collapsed onto his bed, head in his hands, breath hitching. He sat there like that for an immeasurable amount of time before he stood up and scrubbed at his eyes, opened his door and headed for Sam's room. Sam's door was half open, and he was lying in bed and staring blankly at the ceiling, laptop balanced on his chest. Dean knocked softly. "Sam?" Sam's eyes flickered to the door, and he sat up, setting his laptop on the nightstand and smoothing down his hair. "What is it? We got a lead?" No greeting, no preamble. They hadn't talked to each other all day.

Dean took a single step into the room, pushing the door slightly to the side. "No, it's not anything like that. I, um. I wanna talk." Sam's mouth flattened into a line, his gaze darting away, and when had Sam started to avoid this kind of thing as often as Dean did? "I'm not sure that's--I'm tired. Can't it wait?" Dean moistened his lips, scratched his head. "Yeah, uh. Sorry, I'll come back later." He started to go, but Sam said, "Hang on," and stood up, made an aborted move forward. His eyes were dull. "I'm sorry. If you wanna talk, I'll talk."

And so they ended up sitting side by side on Sam's stiff mattress, a near foot of space between them and not a word exchanged for several uncomfortable minutes. "Did something happen?" Sam finally asked, voice rough-hewn in the silence. "Um." Dean cleared his throat. "Sam, do you remember...way back, when you were in your early twenties...we met up with--with an alternate version of me?" Dean sneaked a glance at Sam, and he looked confused.

"An alternate version of...?"

"Yeah. Real son of a bitch, too--got handsy with you, shoved us around a little?" 

"Oh...oh my god," Sam said, turning to face Dean, realization dawning on him. "You remember that, too? I thought it was a dream."

"Nope, it really happened. Just now, actually." Sam gaped. "Wait, you're saying--" Dean didn't know what to do with his hands. "I'm saying I was that son of a bitch." He paused, smiled without mirth and said, "Couldn't just leave well enough alone, tell us to _be excellent to each other_ and make a mysterious exit. No, I had to mouth off like a careless bastard. Apparently that's what I do." At his side, Sam was quiet. 

"Anyway, I'm--" Dean coughed, scrubbed a hand over his hair, "I'm...sorry." Sam sighed. "What for?"

"For uh, all that shit I said back then--an hour ago--whatever. I didn't mean it. I was just...blowing off steam." 

"It's okay if you meant it, Dean." 

Dean dug his fingers into the sides of his jeans. "I. Of course I didn't. You really think that I liked Soulless more than you, or that I don't regret--"

"Regret? Regret what? 'Cause unless I'm remembering this wrong, you said you'd _do it again_." So they'd looped back around to this. 

"Yeah, I wasn't lying about that," Dean said through gritted teeth, trying to get a hold on his anger. "But what I regret is--is being too afraid to tell you the truth. Of not-- _trusting_ you with your own body. I, um. I thought if I clued you in to what had happened, you'd, like, find the nearest cliff and be done with it."

When Dean looked over at Sam's hands, too keyed up to meet his eyes, his knuckles were bone-white. "So that's how it is, is it? This was all just some big, well-intentioned sacrifice on your part? You kept me in the dark because you were _looking out_ for me?" 

"That's not what I said--" 

"Yeah, no, it's not what you said. It's never what you said. I'm twisting your words, right? You never told me that that I don't have the right to be angry about what you did, or that death's better than I deserve--"

"Goddammit, I _told_ you I didn't mean all that--"

"Did you also not mean it when you blamed me for 'losing' my soul, for killing Lilith and letting Lucifer out, even though you told me once that you were also to blame for his rising? Did you not mean it when I was about to close the gates and the only reason you could give me to stop was that your sacrifices would be worthless if I didn't?"

Dean struggled to keep up with Sam's tangents, retaliatory comments flying through his head too quickly for him to hold onto. He concentrated on Sam's last sentence, feeling bewildered and snappish. "How do you...Why are you over-thinking that so much? That's _history_. You were about to take a nosedive, I stopped you, end of story."

"No. No, Dean." Until then, Sam had sounded worn down, defeated; but with those words, a spark of confidence entered his voice. "I'm not over-thinking anything. You _meant_ what you said to me in '05. You're angry at me for what I said the other week. Also, the way you reacted in that church, the one where I nearly completed the Trials, and the other one where..." Sam paused, swallowing, before continuing, "The point is, you always do this thing where you _ignore_ me, even when I'm at the end of my rope."

Dean spluttered, nails digging into his palms. " _Ignore you_? Sam, how the fuck do you figure that, when all the shit that's happened these past two years has been about _you_?  Where the fuck are you getting all this from? I told you in that church that you're more important to me than anything. And after you kicked Gadreel's ass out, I was--" Dean stopped talking mid-word, brain whirring as he was mentally transported back to that scene under the streetlights, Sam quietly saying, _I was ready to die, Dean_. He wondered why he was arguing with Sam, where this anger making his heart race had come from. He knew he'd fucked up. He knew he hadn't been good to Sam. But still, this larger, prickly-hot part of him insisted that he needed to think of himself, that he'd suffered for too long and sweated and bled and died for Sam, that it didn't matter what Sam wanted as long as the end result was that he was alive and kicking.

"Dean," Sam said, breaking his train of thought and placing a hand on his, "You wanna know what I'd have liked you to tell me?" It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Sam seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Dean grunted, "Sure". Sam took a breath. "When you told me you killed Benny to save me, I didn't feel any better. I didn't wanna hear about everything you've given up for me. I didn't wanna think that--that if I wasn't your top priority, there'd be no reason for me to live. It would've been nice," Sam said, eyes pointed at the floor now, "To hear you talk about me without this implication that I'm, like, your  _charge_. 'Cause it's always made me feel like shit."

"You sound like this is something you've practiced saying," Dean said, voice coming out slightly hoarse. Sam didn't bristle like Dean expected him to, gave a half-hearted shrug instead.

"I never said we weren't brothers anymore," Sam added, and Dean would've been confused at the abrupt change of subject if his own words to that younger, softer Sam hadn't been hovering restlessly at the back of his mind since he'd gotten back.

_Yes, you did_.

"I didn't," Sam insisted, "I mean, I get how it could've sounded that way, but what I was saying is--I want you to think over this stuff more carefully. For better or for worse, I don't think either of us is leaving anytime soon, so we should...we should work through our issues when we can." Dean must have scowled or something, or made some kind of condescending expression, because Sam dragged a hand over his face and said, "Dammit, I just--I just want some respect. It shouldn't be too much to ask."

Dean struggled to find the right words, thoughts tumbling like the contents of a washing machine. He was still angry at Sam, always angry at Sam for something or other, like it was all he knew how to feel anymore aside from desperation and bloodlust. Also, what he was saying, that if they just _talked_ to each other about this last disastrous milestone (one of a few hundred, or so it felt like), they'd be on the track to blue skies and mutual understanding--that was crap. And Dean had a feeling Sam knew it, because all the self-therapy in the world couldn't erase the backlog of resentment they'd each built towards the other over the years.

"We're not okay, Dean. We'll never be okay if we keep doing this."

Dean had no fucking clue what he was supposed to say to that. By all accounts, he'd ruined Sam's life, and he had to say or do _something_ to acknowledge that he realized it, to indicate that he was taking responsibility for his latest fuck-up, but his ability to form meaningful sentences had deserted him. He nodded slowly, said, "Yeah." Sam chewed on the corner of his lip. "What does that mean?" 

"It means...I'm brain-dead and tired and I don't know how anything I could say would make anything better, but I really am sorry, Sam. I'm sorry for going off on you in '05, and I'm sorry Kevin's dead, and I'm sorry I lied to you about Gadreel until it was too late." There, he'd done it. Gold star for Dean. When he looked at Sam, he seemed conflicted.

"Okay, Dean," he said, giving him a lopsided smile. 

"What does _that_ mean?" 

"It means, I appreciate the apology, but I'm hoping you weren't thinking it was gonna be that easy. And...I know that no matter what you say right now, part of you isn't fully convinced I deserve this."

"I--I'm not sure how to--"

"If it's okay with you, we can talk more tomorrow. It's late. Get some rest." Dean tried not to look too relieved, stood and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, but he stopped himself from flouncing off just yet. Sam blinked curiously up at him. "Something else you wanna say?"

Dean swiped his tongue over his dry lips. "Uh..." He leaned down, hesitated for a moment before his hands were on Sam's face and his thumb was brushing over Sam's mouth, cautious, questioning. Sam didn't say anything, but he shifted his head very slightly in an almost imperceptible nod, and Dean kissed him before he could take his next breath. He'd meant for it to be quick and chaste, but Sam responded with vigor, wrapping his arms around Dean and tugging him closer, nearly overbalancing him. Dean dropped to his knees so that he wasn't straining his back, fitting between Sam's legs and kissing him as passionately as he knew how. They broke apart after a moment, breathing hard and averting their eyes from one another.

"G'night, Sam," Dean said, and hastily headed for his own room. As he went, the thought that stood out in his mind above all others was, _I love him so fucking much_ , and he wished he could say so to Sam as much as he wished he knew how to begin making up for all the wrong he'd done. 


End file.
